Staring Down the Barrel
by WritePassion
Summary: A one-shot that came to me after watching Scorched Earth for the second time today. This story has been changed slightly since it was first posted.


_Burn Notice: I don't own it, I just like to play with it._

_This story has been edited since it was first posted._

**Staring Down the Barrel**

By WritePassion

The first time I faced an enemy close enough to see the dark inside of that shiny cylinder, I was young and still new to the game of war. Somehow, despite the terror I felt, I wound up taking the guy down before he ripped me apart with a .45. I still remember the caliber, and somewhere in my storage locker, I even have the weapon.

In working with Michael Westen, and I'm supposed to be a civilian, for crying out loud, I wish I had a dollar for every time someone pointed a gun at me. It's become almost routine, which in itself is scary. I'm not sure I had that much courage, or crazy, in me to stand firm and not flinch in my younger days. There are times when I give up, because the chances of my coming out alive are a lot greater if I do, or I know Mike is waiting in the wings to take out the guy holding the gun. But at that moment in time, I didn't know what to do. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that something was broken, and Mike couldn't fix it.

That was one thing about Mike, no matter what I let him drag me into, he was always there. I could always count on him. He never, _ever_, let me down. God knows he didn't get the same consideration out of me. I betrayed him by letting Fi turn herself in. I shouldn't have done it, even if she was right, because now I saw what losing her did to him. He wasn't himself. I'd never seen him so close to the edge of losing his sanity.

Which was why I was in the situation at the chemical plant, and I was faced with the one thing I never expected from Mike: betrayal of a different kind. He pulled a gun on me. I had to blink, not sure I was seeing it, but there it was. A mere two feet from my face, and at that range, I would have been dead before I even hit the cement floor. Even now, it's incomprehensible that he would do that. I wanted to ask why, but he was in no mood to talk or to reason with. He crossed the line. All I could do was stare at him, and at that point, a bullet to the face would have hurt less. I expected him to come to his senses and put the gun down, but he didn't.

Dani didn't waste any time pointing her gun at him. As resistant as she'd been to our schemes and chasing after Anson, she at least knew the value of her team and how important it was to keep them focused. Mike's vision was so blurry, he couldn't see the line. She knew that, and she knew the only way to get him to come to his senses again was to stop him from shooting me and putting down the gun. Every second that I saw the inside of that barrel was a second that I mourned the death of our friendship. I knew I deserved his anger when he lashed out, but I sure didn't deserve to die for what I'd done. If he'd been thinking, he wouldn't have pulled that gun. That didn't stop me from telegraphing the hurt I felt, and my disbelief that he turned on me.

I held my breath, waiting. I imagined seeing the flash and feeling the impact. I'd been shot before, and it hurt like hell, but what would it feel like when it crashed into my face? Would I even register what happened? Just when I thought about Elsa and wondered how she would take my death, I saw a miracle. Mike put down the gun. Dani talked him off the symbolic ledge just enough to get him to stop threatening me with that gun. Then he gave it to me. It never occurred to me, not for one second, to point it back at him. He's my best friend, like a brother, and I couldn't imagine ever putting a bead on Mike. Which made it all the more surreal that he'd done it to me.

My brain seemed to be on a full boil, the day's activities still running amok inside. We had a lull for awhile, and Pearce suggested we go home to rest. I was afraid to let Mike go to the loft alone, but I wasn't sure I could sleep there, either. Too many ghosts. It was crazy. I had no reason to think he would repeat the mistake from today. I trusted him with my life many times before, so there was no logical reason to doubt him now. Yet I did. I was afraid that his being in the loft, where this whole ugly chapter in our lives hurtled us downhill fast, would make something snap. So instead of going to the loft, I retreated to the hotel and Elsa's tender arms.

She asked me how I got blood on my shirt, and I told her she was better off not knowing. That's one of the things I love about her, that she supports what I do even though I can't tell her what it is, and she's always there to help me decompress afterwards. In exchange, I give her my complete attention when we're together and love her like she's never been loved before. Except tonight. It was a complete bust from the moment I arrived back for a late dinner to the time we tumbled into bed. I couldn't get my mind off what happened. And then I broke.

For the first time, I told her what happened on a mission. Not all of it, but enough for her to know that I could have died today. Then she loved me, and she treated me with such tenderness, such a beautiful contrast, that I wept in her arms afterwards. She fell asleep, but I was still awake. I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave Mike alone. I decided to go to the loft and let what might happen, happen. I left Elsa a message, just in case.

I hated myself for thinking that it could only end in tragedy. Surely in all the years we'd been friends and gone through all sorts of sticky situations together Mike proved his loyalty, as did I to him. There was no way he would throw that all away. I tentatively raised my fist and knocked on the door. No answer. I did it again, and just when I was about to give up and leave, the door flung open and Mike stood there in his pajama bottoms. He held a gun up, and it reminded me again of that afternoon. My stomach felt as if I'd leaped off the edge of the Grand Canyon, and the hope I'd had earlier fell away. He quickly dropped it. Under the floodlight, I couldn't see the depths of his eyes, but the agony on his face was clear.

"Sam." My name pushed out from between his lips as if it hurt his soul to say it. His brow furrowed, and the words came out in a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too, brother." We'd both said this before, at the chemical plant. But now that we were away from the heat of the battle, it needed to be said again.

I hadn't seen Mike this close to tears since I found him in the Charger with Fi's letter and his gun in his right hand. I thought he was contemplating shooting himself and I'd been almost thankful at the time that he turned his anger toward me. But now, there was no anger, only excruciating pain and sadness. And like the best friend I believed that I was, I moved inside, closed the door, and took the gun from him. I removed the clip and the bullet in the chamber, then laid it on a table near the door. The ammo I put in my pocket.

In the dim light I saw Mike crumble emotionally. It was shocking to witness. He was always a rock, but even rocks split. I was there to catch him when he fell, when he pooled on the floor with his legs underneath him and his tears wetting the surface. I didn't have any pat words of comfort for him. To be honest, I was never good at that stuff anyway. I simply sat on the floor with him, wrapped my arms around his shaking frame, and let the well run dry. He was exhausted then, and so was I. I didn't think either of us would be able to get off the floor, but somehow we managed. Hanging onto each other like a couple of drunks, I helped him to the bed. He fell on it. I gently pushed him back to lay on the surface and covered him with the blanket.

I watched him for a few moments as he slept despite the lamp shining beside the bed. My eyelids got heavy, so I sat in a nearby chair.

"You didn't have to do that, Sam, unload the gun. I wasn't going to shoot you. Not before, not now."

"I know. I just thought I'd make sure that nobody did anything stupid." My deep sigh traveled across the room over the muted thumping coming from the club below. "Night, Mike."

"Night, Sam."

I closed my eyes but I still couldn't sleep. Not sitting up, even though I'd had plenty of that experience in my younger days. I turned off the light, forced myself to climb the stairs to the office, and fell onto the couch. In seconds, I was out. My last thoughts were that tomorrow would be a better day, and I never had to worry about staring down the barrel of Michael Westen's gun again.


End file.
